


At the Bottom of Everything

by sapphoslover



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff and Angst, Funerals, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-binary Remus Lupin, Trans Sirius Black, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphoslover/pseuds/sapphoslover
Summary: Alphard's death drags Sirius to Wales and opens a path for all things new and old and forgotten and always remembered.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 13
Kudos: 75





	At the Bottom of Everything

**Author's Note:**

> some detailed warnings: the implied homophobia and transphobia and child abuse is NOT graphic at all it's just canon typical Black-family awfulness. nothing is mentioned in details!
> 
> There is an OMC i have created who is Alphard's husband.
> 
> also,,,this was not supposed to be 10k but i guess anything i write with these two can never be short so welcome to my personal hell. hope u enjoy 
> 
> ALSO shout out to wolfstar nerds discord for encouraging the hell out of me. love u all.

In the middle of the trees standing taller than life itself, he could see the house— like something from the set of _The Addams Family_ or something more melancholy, like _Wuthering Heights_ , or simply like something out of a children’s horror story— something that sticks to insides of one’s mouth like a bad taste, like burnt ash.

His phone buzzes to life with concern from James and he lets it sit like that, the reminder that there is someone alive who loves him a balm on the tatters of whatever is left of his heart. At least he won’t be left for dead if the trees and the earth of this place decide to take him. 

He grabs some of it, some of the earth a little ways away from Alphard’s house and rolls it around in his fingers, feeling the memories of it come alive behind his eyelids like a staccato of scenes being played on a dirty white sheet in the middle of a forest filled with flowers that should have died years ago. _It’s like being in a fairytale,_ he remembers, Regulus’ small words fitting inside his small hands as he would latch onto Sirius with force that still staggers him sometimes. 

“Not planning on coming inside?” Dennis’ voice flits through the trees as if it had taken flight from the porch he’s standing on, hands on his hips and a smile on his face that reminds Sirius of irises between the snow. 

Sirius walks towards the house, the leaves and earth welcoming him as they did every year he came here to see Alphard and Dennis, the earth remembering him the way he still remembers it, the smell of it something like a savior even now within the stale-but tall walls of his flat in London. His phone buzzes again— another welcome reminder. 

Dennis looks as he does every time Sirius has seen him— hope etched along the smile-lines on his face, as if drawn there with the smallest of brushes, utmost care in the way the painter drew them. Sirius loves him, in so much as he is capable of loving a living, breathing thing without ripping its limbs off in the process. Which is to say: Sirius calls him, whenever he can, through the stone that was lodged in his chest 20-something years ago and has a made a home out of Sirius’ body, which is to say that he keeps the life-blood in the viscera of his mouth long enough to say, _how have you been? How’s Alphard? I’ve missed you,_ except, Alphard isn’t here anymore, that is visible in the black of Dennis’ clothes and the way he holds his hands as if in surrender. 

“My boy,” Dennis says, voice like the ring of the first bird-call in early spring, his arms forgiving as compass needles as they wrap around Sirius like they’ve done countless times, before.

“You look lovely.” Sirius looks at him closely, the dark-brown of his skin painted with lines he hasn’t seen before. 

“Ah, ever the flatterer. Come in.” 

The house holds, standing on old and worn wood for years and years through rain and storm and snow and battle— the house holds, filled with memories Sirius had a hand in. There is a picture of him and Regulus over the old piano, not laden with dust and something clenches around Sirius’ chest, something as old as memory, as longing. 

“It looks the same.” He says, eyes flitting along the old staircase, the kitchen.

“Yes. Alphard liked it this way.”

“And you? Has the old country-life worn you down, finally? I can clean up a room in my flat, you know. Although I doubt the city of London would be up to your tastes.” 

Dennis laughs, loud in the emptiness of the house, of the trees that surround it. It seems to bounce off the walls and settle like weeds between the cracks in the walls, the floors, inside the spaces of his heart. 

“A very alluring proposition, I assure you, Sirius, but I’m afraid this place isn’t quite finished with me, yet.” 

Sirius runs his hands along the piano, clean as sunlight, feels the surface of the keys press into his skin with buried memories, _Alphard trying to play the piano, failing, Dennis’ gentle laughter as he would take over, the sound of Orpheus in the Underworld filling the spaces between their words and laughter like a kiss from an old lover,_ he removes his hand, feeling lit like a live-wire, something about the alive-ness of this house. 

“Well, London isn’t going anywhere.” He says, voice hoarse around the edges, palms sweaty with the weight of it all.

“London has better things to do than to wait for a grieving old man.” Dennis grins, knife-bright in the evening sunlight fluttering in through the curtains, sharp as a blade and softer than velvet. 

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” 

“Oh, Sirius, I’ll be alright.” 

“I have a bike big enough to fit both of us.”

“Alphard was right, you know,” Dennis laughs, “you _are_ stubborn.” 

“That shouldn’t be a surprise to you.” Sirius says, wipes his hands on his jeans, tries to get the beat of his heart something resembling steady. The absence of Alphard seems to fill the house more than the presence of him did, it’s there between the lines on the sofa, the empty tea-cup in the kitchen, the absence of Alphard like a knife-wound to the gut after the knife’s been pulled out. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face but he thinks it does, with the way Dennis’ eyes soften around the corners and he says _sit down, love. My late husband didn’t get this outrageously expensive and hideous sofa so that no one would sit on it._

Sirius thinks he laughs, feels something warm being pushed into his hands, _tea,_ smelling of ginger and something else, something like the warmth of the sun, something he isn't quite sure exists outside of Dennis’ hands. 

He sits beside him, the same tea in his hands.

“Tea can solve everything.” Dennis says, eyes twinkling.

Sirius laughs this time, loud inside the house, “it’s certainly worth it to try. Alphard would be disappointed if we didn’t.”

“Ah, that old coot,” says Dennis, longing older than words in the shape of his hands clasping the mug, in the small twist of his lips, in the almost-but-not-quite tears stuck to his eyelashes, “he’s watching, from wherever he is, if anywhere, and he’s laughing, let me tell you. That man loved laughter.”

“He loved you.” Sirius finds himself saying, fingers tight on his mug, taking all the warmth greedily, as if none would come again, “he loved you so fucking much.” 

“Oh, dear boy,” Dennis murmurs, words alight with _something_ , settling on the un-alive, un-dead air around them, sharp as guitar-strings, as calluses on one’s fingers, rough but yielding, “he loved you as well Sirius, he was so proud of you.” 

Sirius wants to scream, wants to scream _why_ from the hilltops just so that it _is heard_ , but his lungs won’t let him, _for the best_ , perhaps but just because he can't do it doesn't mean the scream stops existing. It floats around in his mouth with no place to go and settles on the edges of his teeth like something rotten and pure.

“I—” He starts, stops, something moves, the earth, maybe or the air, _something_ unfurls somewhere, as if the earth is tearing itself apart, as if Hades is opening the doors to hell.

The door opens, after a short knock and this is not the first time Sirius has seen _him,_ but it feels like _this_ is the first day of his life.

“Remus!” Dennis says, arms spreading, spreading. The earth holds itself in place in tune to Sirius’ breath, “my boy- ah. Sorry, dear. Not boy, my person, Remus. Forgive me.”

Remus grins knife-bright and battle-sharp steady, steady gumption in the state of him, “It’s alright. You called Dorcas ‘carcass’ a few days ago. It’s the old age.” 

Dennis laughs, “Remus, this is Alphard’s and my nephew, Sirius.” 

Sirius knows him, Sirius _knows_ him, and he knows how he knows him— soft, casual touches in the corridors of Hogwarts, a gentle brush of a shoulder, a thigh, then, glancing across rows of dining tables, all his practiced arrogant grace in tangent with longing written in a glance towards Remus, only for a second, two, then, _later,_ Remus being introduced as _Marlene’s latest girlfriend’s friend, who also went to school with us,_ dancing with him under the soft lights of Marlene’s home, _later,_ within his sheets, soft sounds that Sirius catalogued into his brain, sounds he still plays everyday when he shoves a hand between his legs and comes, hard. 

“We’ve met.” Remus says and something _burns_ inside Sirius’ chest. 

“Oh?” Dennis questions, getting some more tea, pouring into a mug, all sweater-laden sunshine. 

“We went to the same school, and we met in London a while ago.” Remus says, eyes still on Sirius. 

“How lovely,” Dennis says, arm around Remus’ shoulder leading him to the sofa, “Remus here has the only other house in this area.”

Remus laughs and the sound goes straight to Sirius’ gut like a machete. “It’s my parents’ house. I came here to take care of mum when she got sick and I’ve just stuck around since.” 

“How long have you been here?” Sirius says, wills his voice to stay steady, for his hands to not immediately grasp onto any part of Remus like a twig given to a drowning man.

“Around 4 months?” 

“He won our hearts in half a minute.” Dennis smiles, easy nonchalance betrayed by the way his eyes simmer with something Sirius is too afraid to call love. 

Remus laughs again and for a second Sirius can almost see dandelions like stubbornness stuck to the roof of his mouth. “You’re always too kind, Dennis.” 

“Yes, well,” Dennis grins, leaning against the dining table, “This kind man is asking you both to go to the shops and get some food for tomorrow.” 

“How many people will be there?” Sirius asks.

“Oh, not many. Just some of our old friends. Alphard was never much for crowds.” 

“Alright, then.” 

“Remus knows where the shops are, you don’t mind, love, do you?” Dennis says, eyes towards Remus, who seems to fit with the house like something old, a candelabra that lights itself everyday.

“Not at all,” Remus grins, and the air seems to shake with it, “Sirius? Shall we?”

“Of course.” Everything Sirius is, everything he’s ever been, seems to rise inside of him, higher than a tide with the way Remus’s eyes rest on him, glinting with something no words exist for, yet. 

_____

Somewhere above them, thunder sounds, loud and imposing and it catches, a bit, on Remus’ heartstrings and tugs, tugs, tugs, all the way to where Sirius tands, face close to an apple he’s picked up.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Just checking to see if it’s good.” Sirius says, grins, brighter than any light Remus has ever seen. 

“By smelling it?”

“It works, Lupin. Trust me.”

“I do,” Remus says,suddenly, in a moment of terrible bravery that he hopes he won’t regret later. He is not impulsive but his tongue seems to forget everything it knows when he hears Sirius’ voice. 

Sirius looks at him, eyes sharp, gaze even sharper with the way it settles on Remus like a premonition. 

“That’s a bit rash of you, isn’t it?” Says Sirius. 

“Maybe,” Remus laughs, fiddles with his hands for something to do, “but, I do. Alphard loved you. Dennis loves you. He trusts you. I trust him. So,”

“That’s the only reason, then?” Sirius says, mouth twisting up, up, up, stature as if he knows something Remus doesn’t, as if he doesn’t know anything at all. Remus doesn’t know which to believe. 

“Maybe that’s for you to find out.” He says and catches the sound of Sirius’ laughter from behind him with open palms and fingers that tremble just lightly. It takes a second, to realise that this is what _hope_ feels like. 

They get what they can, bags filled with apples and oranges, spices and bread, and conversation that never dies on the tip of their tongues. 

The smell of it all fills Alphard’s and Dennis’ home as quick as lightning as Sirius lays everything out on the kitchen counter. 

Remus watches him move, and feels the threads of _something_ building somewhere deep inside him, the same way they did that night in London, with the city awake around them, a shield or a spectre, or both, as most things are. 

“I came here about two weeks ago,” Sirius begins, back towards Remus, who leans against one of the counters, “you weren’t here.” 

“I was in Great Orme with Dorcas.” Remus replies.

“Ah, I was here a month ago as well. You weren’t here, then, either.”

“I think, maybe, I was in Cardiff, then.”  
  
“With Dorcas?” Sirius says, turns around, arms folding in front of his chest, strands of midnight hair framing his face, better than a painting, and mouth twisted in a grin that could light fires and quell them. 

“With Dorcas.” Remus says, begs his voice to steady, steady, steady. 

“Hmm. How about that? Maybe there’s two Dorcases then, because I think she was with Marlene for their anniversary a month ago.” 

Remus looks at Sirius’ eyes, alight with something he can’t name, something, he perhaps, shouldn’t. But they look at him in a way that doesn’t make him want to hide, like he has for years upon years. He feels alive in a way that should be terrifying, he feels lit in a way that should make him fall to his knees, but they hold, his knees, his heart, they hold. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, is all I’m saying.” Sirius says.

“Don’t I?” Remus raises an eyebrow, “it’s a bit, sort of, my thing, is all.” 

Sirius laughs again, and Remus imagines the house shaking with it, with nothing but the force of his laughter.

“Maybe. We all need to have our things. But I can take almost anything, so you don’t have to lie. You know that.” 

“Not quite sure what I know and don’t know. I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“It wouldn’t have been this long, if I could have helped it.” 

Remus breathes in, his heart beats humming-bird fast in the hollow of his chest and his hands _ache_ with it, with the need to hold something, anything, however fleeting, however unreal. 

“I’m sorry,” Remus says, “I,”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Sirius states, “not to me, anyway. Not sure I deserve it.” 

“I _had_ to go,” Remus insists, tries to maneuver it into the air around them that if he’d had a choice he would have never left Sirius, in this life or any other, “I sort of need you to know that.”

“You don’t owe me a thing.” Says Sirius, with a vehemence that Remus has always known has existed inside of him, even before he heard his voice, or felt the touch of his hands for the first time. 

“You don't know me,” he says, “I don’t know you, either.” 

“I’ve known you for almost the past decade, Remus. Dorcas never stopped talking about you.” 

“I’ve known you through Dorcas as well, more than through you.” Remus laughs, partly because it’s the truth, partly because it isn’t, maybe there _is_ no such thing— as the truth, when it comes to him and what he’s seen and what he hasn’t. If there is one thing he knows to be true, it is that he’s loved Sirius longer than he, perhaps had the right to, longer than he’s loved anyone in this universe or any other, longer and harder than he knows how to. But he doesn’t quite know how to _fit_ that in the space of his mouth or _keep_ it there long enough to get it out and into the world, into the air. How hard it is, to make something exist out of one’s own fucking body, when all it does is _ache_ to get out.

“Well, we are at a funeral,” Sirius says, “we’ve got all the time in the world.” 

Remus laughs and his voice gets stuck somewhere in his throat, for reasons he wishes never to examine, and Sirius pretends not to notice, pretends not to feel the air churn around them as if beckoning something that could only be disaster as he turns around and continues stowing the food away. 

____

The night before Alphard’s funeral, Sirius doesn’t sleep, can’t sleep. He presses his ear to the wall separating the room he’s in and the room Dennis sleeps in, on an empty bed. He presses his ear to the wall and wishes, wishes, wishes that the walls could talk, if only so he could _know,_ with unbridled certainty that every moment he spent in this house with Regulus was as real as the ones spent without him. Because, sometimes, in the darkest corners of the night, Regulus’ face blurs in his mind and he forgets what his voice sounded like, what his laughter sounded like when brought on by Sirius himself, what his vitriol sounded like, using words Sirius knew belonged to their parents and tasted strange coming from Regulus’ mouth. 

There is a picture, next to the bed in this room, this room that Alphard put two small beds in for him and Regulus some 20 years ago when all Sirius knew of the world was how bright it could be sometimes— and how dark, other times, when all Sirius knew of his parents was how bitter their words felt when they stuck to his skin like leeches and how he would die and die and die a thousand times over if it meant Regulus would never have to know that. 

The picture is black and white, and has two small boys, one taller than the other, with light in both of their eyes, light that survived being put in a frame, light that survived being put next to a bed that remained empty for a long time. 

He remembers that day, despite wishing otherwise for years and years, he remembers that day, the last day in a way, the first, in another. 

He picks it up and the wind howls outside, in compassion or sorrow, Sirius does not know. If there’s a difference, Siris does not know either. 

His fingers ache with it, with the sheer _absence_ of it all, absence of Alphard, of Regulus, worse than a knife in his gut. He can take a lot, he knows, but there is also, only so much he can take, in the dead of the night, he lets himself feel that truth. The truth of his own fragility, truer than anything could ever be. What good does it do? To know the truth when all it does is poke and prod and tear a hole into whatever life he’s tried to build. 

His hands shake, and he grasps the photo tighter, hopes that all his tremulousness is enough to make Regulus alive again. A childish hope, but a hope, nonetheless. He doesn't know enough about hope, _nor should he_ , he thinks, not with the way he was raised, not with the way he knows loss deep inside of his bones as if he was born with it and nothing else. 

Sometime after midnight, the rains fall, loud and imposing and when James calls, he picks up. 

“It’s too late for you to be up, old man.” Sirius says, leans to the familiarity of what he knows best. 

James laughs and Sirius hoards the sound for himself like gold, any scrap of joy he can find, he takes and keeps, keeps, _keeps,_ selfishly, he keeps. 

“Had some trouble putting Harry to bed today. He _just_ fell asleep. Lily’s knackered. But that’s not why I called.” 

“Oh I know why you called. I know I’m the only one who can get your son to sleep before 10.” 

James laughs again and Sirius’ heart breaks at how it sounds so much like Regulus’.

“Whatever you need to believe, man. But, really. How are you? How’s Dennis? You know Lils, Peter and I wanted to be there—” 

“Relax, mate. I wasn’t going to let you and Lily come here with a 2 weeks old baby. I’m a bit of a shit but not that huge. How’s Peter doing?”

“He’s still sick. He said his fever is a bit less than what it was yesterday but he’s still mostly in bed.” James says and Sirius hears the sound of him making tea. 

“He’s alone? Also make one cup for me as well, won’t you?”

“You _are_ a bit of a shit. He’s in his flat, yeah. I went to see him in the morning. Dorcas and Marlene are staying with him tonight.” 

“Fuck. It’s that bad?”

“He’s mostly fine but he had a bit of trouble getting out of bed so they went.” 

“Yeah,” Says Sirius and hears the hesitation on the other end of the phone as if it were his own. 

“Sirius—”

“James.” 

“I am here, you know that, yeah? And Lily and Peter and everyone else.”

“I met Remus.” Sirius says, unsure why but the presence of Remus is better than any salvation could ever be. 

“Sorry, what? That guy you used to pine after when we were in Hogwarts? Who was in Ravenclaw with Dorcas? Her best friend? The same Remus you shagged?” 

“Yeah, mate. Didn’t know you paid so much attention.”

“Holy fuck! What are the odds, you were so gone for him.”

“Don’t yell, you shit. You’re gonna wake Harry and Lils up.”

“Why’s he there?” James whispers.

“He’s friends with Dennis.” Sirius says, swallows around something that seems to have stuck in his throat, something like misery, something like longing, something like a secret. 

“How, Sirius? That’s what I’m asking.”

Sirius sighs, lays down on the bed that he refuses to have changed despite it being small for him. He fits himself into the bed the way he had all those years ago, tucked in with Regulus next to him, afraid to sleep alone.

“I don’t think that’s my story to tell,” he says, instead of, _I’ve never felt more alive than when I saw him,_ instead of, _I don’t know what to do, James, I don’t know what to do, I don’t think I can do this._

“Hey,” Says James and Sirius loves him so much, his heart _hurts_ with it sometimes, with all the goodness James fits into himself, into the life he builds and rebuilds every day, “hey, Sirius. It’s okay. I love you, mate, yeah? Whatever you wanna do, whatever you do, I’m here. All of us are.” 

“Yeah,” Says Sirius, traces Regulus’ face in the photo with a calloused finger, wishes for some sort of salvation, for some sort of penance, “go to sleep. You’re too old to be up so late. Won’t want Lily finding you fainted on my account.” 

“You’ve done worse,” James laughs, “but yeah. Call me or Lily whenever yeah? Love you.” 

“Give my love to Harry, Lily and Peter, yeah? I’ll see you soon.” 

“Tell Dennis we’re sorry.” Says James. 

“Yeah. Love you, tosser.” 

James laughs, and Sirius hears the call end, he lets the phone stay between his ear and shoulder, lets something real stay in this place that feels as if it exists on the edges of time and space, somewhere that perhaps, shouldn’t be. 

But, the sun rises, like it always does, and the rain continues to fall and for a moment, Sirius is seven again and he does not know _why_ his mother screams at Alphard when he sees him embrace Dennis, does not why she vows to never send him and Regulus back there. For a moment, he is seven again and all he knows is that the world is bright sometimes, and other times it is dark and the name his mother uses for him has never been his, all he knows is that his mother’s touch bruises more often than not, and he would die before he lets that happen to Regulus.

____

The morning of Alphard’s funeral, he and Dennis cook silently. Dennis smiles at him and laughs sometimes and Sirius marvels at the way he feels joy, so abundantly, just as he feels sorrow. 

Alphard was loved, Sirius knows, Alphard was loved deeply and he found a shred of happiness and he grabbed it and held on to it as tight as he could, and that happiness came years ago in the shape of a dark-skinned man whose eyes overflowed with kindness. Alphard held on to him. 

Sirius knows Alphard was happy, in so much as someone from The Blacks could be happy, Alphard was happy. He knows that through every letter Alphard wrote to him, even after he stopped seeing him. He still wonders how Alphard got the letters to reach Sirius without Walburga finding out. He never asked, afraid of the answer, perhaps, or maybe, still clinging on to the thread of hope that had made him believe in the existence of magic being the reason behind the letters all those years ago. 

Some things, maybe, never quite end when they die. 

Alphard’s friends come in bearing smiles and casseroles lined with grief. They pass somber words and sometimes genuine laughter. They seem to know Sirius, despite him never having met most of them. 

They hug him, ask him about London and tell him Alphard was more proud of him than anything else in his life.

They bury Alphard in a cemetery close to home. Nobody says anything, as Alphard wanted. 

All of his friends come home after, and they eat, feeling some sort of burden lifted. They talk about Alphard, laughing and smoking, sharing stories that Sirius has heard more than once but he would be damned if he didn’t hear them again. 

Remus comes, as well, from the cemetery to the house. He talks to Dennis, he offers food, he laughs and Sirius feels it hit his gut harder than a punch. Remus looks a vision in black, the ends of his dress flitting in and around the house with him, and Sirius wonders what it would feel like between his fingers, if it would feel anything like freedom. He does not talk to Remus, much, does not talk to anyone much. He feels Remus’ eyes, though, following him wherever he goes, as much as they can and feels the beginning of _something_ stir low in his gut, intense as a wildfire, the first traces of affections, of lingering eyes and touches, shy glances and not-so-shy brushing of hands. He feels alive, lit up like a live-wire, all his senses alight with grief and infatuation. He can’t tell the difference. 

When everyone begins to leave, he heads to the roof, a packet of cigarettes in one pocket and a picture of Alphard and Dennis and him and Regulus in the other, a grounding. 

____

Remus stays behind, watches Alphard’s life flicker out of the house until the heart remains, leaning against the sofa, the lines of his face morphed into the tiredness that comes not just from grief. 

“I can clean up.” He says. 

“Oh, Remus, relax. You and Sirius can clean up tomorrow. Let today be. Bring some wine. I’ll light the fire. It’s getting cold.” Dennis grins, eyes twinkling in a way that Remus thinks would make the stars envious. He gets two glasses and some cake that’s been leftover along with what he knows to be Alphard’s best wine. 

Dennis sits next to the fireplace on the sofa, head laid back, eyes closed. Remus joins him, sitting opposite on the sturdy chair, placing the wine and the cake on the table between them, The fire lights the room not just with warmth, but something else as well, something that seems to slip in and out of his grasp like a firefly, some fleeting tendril of a moment that wraps itself around his finger tight only to let go the next moment, never to be seen, never to be felt, only to be replaced by something newer, something more whole.

Dennis opens his eyes and they are wet with tears, “it’s been a long day,” he says, “we deserve this.” 

Remus laughs and clinks glasses with him, the sound seeming loud in the otherwise holy emptiness of the un-quiet around them. “What about Sirius?”

“He went to the roof, I assume. Has always gone there when he was overwhelmed, or in pain.” Dennis says, hand twisting around the glass, as if in anguish. 

“His family didn’t come.” 

“ _We_ are his family,” Dennis says, voice hard as iron in a way he’s never heard from him, “us and James and Lily and their child and all his friends, and you.”

Remus swallows, hides the shake of his hands, and wipes the sweat on his palms on his dress, “I don’t think I’m his family.”

Dennis laughs, eyes softening immediately, “with the way he looks at you? You are his family, my dear. Even if he doesn’t know how to say it yet, even if _you_ don’t know how to recognise it.” 

Remus looks away, feeling too pinned by Dennis’ gaze as if he knows something Remus doesn’t, which, he might. 

“I would never know what to do with it,” he confesses, softly, slowly, “he’s too bright. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” 

“Regulus killed himself,” Dennis says, looking right at Remus, unflinching intensity through all his pain, his grief, his love, “he was 18. Sirius was 20. This family, Remus, Alphard used to say the Blacks were born with pain in their genes and if they didn’t get out, it would swallow them whole. I am— not sure why I’m telling you this. But Sirius got out, Regulus couldn’t. Sirius is bright light but that’s not all of him. He tries, like Alphard did.” 

“Dorcas mentioned,” Remus says, “about Regulus. It, ah, it was in the papers as well.”

Dennis nods, eyes heavy, “I’m not surprised. He was a good child.”

“I am so sorry.”

Dennis looks at him again, and the air seems to fall with melancholy, “Sirius is— brave, Remus. He is as brave as they come but he stumbles.”

Remus swallows through the lump in his throat, feels it disassemble like fallen autumn leaves after a rush of air, “you don’t need to talk him up to me.”

“I know,” Dennis says, un-callous gumption in the twist of his mouth, the set of his shoulders, his hand on his glass, “I trust your judgement, as I did Alhphard’s. I have had no cause to regret it _.”_

Sitting like this, the moonlight falls right in the centre of his eyes and Remus looks away, feels as if he might give away too much if he keeps looking at Dennis.

“He’s _good,”_ Dennis continues, his hand twisting on his glass as if in thought and Remus feels the familiar ache of _something_ building under his skin, “both of you deserve a chance at happiness, however fucked your odds may be.”

“What if we’ve lost all our chances?” Remus says, hands twisting in his lap as he hears the first call of thunder and the whisper of leaves, gentle in their wake, as if telling a prophecy on the ground.

“My dear child,” Dennis begins, leans forward and Remus sees the smile lines on his face, old as words, sees the years of pain and joy and grief and love wrote on his face clear as day, like staring into a fire and seeing the reason it was built in the first place, “people so much worse than you get more chances than you two have gotten. These things are as they are. Keep looking, Remus. You’re bound to trip on happiness one of these days.” 

Remus laughs, lets himself lean back on the chair, wills his heart to beat steady, “who says I’m not happy?”

Dennis’ eyes twinkle the way a child’s might, before doing something particularly mischievous, “I may be old, Remus but I do know things.” 

“I’ll give you that.” Remus grins, “Alphard wouldn’t have married you just like that.”

Dennis smiles then and Remus sees resignation clearer than any river he’s ever seen in his eyes, “no, he wouldn’t have,” he says, voice soft, “I love him more than anyone in this world has a right to love someone.”

“I am so sorry, Dennis, I am so sorry.” 

Dennis touches his hand for a beat, and Remus feels their griefs collapsing into something big and unholy, ugly in its wake, with the way it washes away every semblance of anything else. 

“I’ll be alright.” Dennis says, takes his hand away and Remus breathes in, in, in. 

“You won’t go to London with Sirius?”Dennis laughs, “don’t you start as well. No, I’ll stay in this house Alphard and I built. They’re living things, you know, houses, and this one was built with more love and patience than I have ever seen inside anything. And I wouldn’t leave it alone.” 

Remus breathes in again, shaky, says, “I don’t think I want to stay here any longer.”

“No,” Dennis agrees, “I think London is waiting for you, child,” he gets up, slowly, grabbing his cane, “I think I’ll turn in. Feel free to stay and sleep, if you’d like. And Remus, when you find something _good_ , latch on to it with all the strength you don’t have and don’t you dare let it go.”

____

Sirius stays there till the sun comes up on the green of Wales and the ache inside of him goes from burning to gentle simmering, something he can take, something he has taken for most of his life. 

The room he stays in is bathed in sunlight, shards of it falling on Regulus’ face in the photo he left on the bed and his heart threatens to break all over again.

He manages to take a shower. When he gets dressed, he runs his fingers across the top-surgery scars on his chest and closes his eyes for a second, breathes in, in, in, thinks of everyone he’s loved and everyone he hasn’t and everyone he wishes he did. When he breathes out, the world steadies a little, underneath his feet and the face in the mirror in front of him is his, again. 

Downstairs, he sees Remus on the sofa, still in the dress he wore at the funeral and his heart beats louder than drums in his head, the tune of it in conjunction to the short breaths Remus takes. Sirius’ fingers ache, to touch, to hold, and he wills them to stay, despite the shaking, he wills them to stay. The curtains flare around him with the force of the wind, as if in chastisement and he marvels a bit, again, at the aliveness this house has, most times. 

He stands there, in the middle of the living room, for a bit, hands shaking just slightly at his sides ahd the wind howling pain in his ears. When he sees Dennis coming down the stairs, he breathes in, catches Dennis’ warm smile and goes to make tea. 

Dennis joins him in the kitchen, warmth in every crevice of his smile, “did you sleep?”

Sirius manages a smile of his own, using strength he doesn’t quite have but he can take, he can take some from Dennis, some from this home, sonme from Alphard, “not really.”

“I’ll forgive that just the once.” 

Sirius laughs, “thank you,” he looks back at Remus on the sofa, “he didn’t go home.”

“No,” Dennis says, “he wanted to clean up but I told him to do it tomorrow with you. We had a drink then I went to bed. I think he was worried for us.”

“Does he have anyone to worry for him?”

Dennis looks right at him, gaze piercing in a way that _still_ unnerves Sirius, “he has me, he has you, does he, Sirius?”

Sirius has to look away, “yes.”

____

Remus wakes up and goes back to his parents’ house as Dennis takes Sirius to his and Alphard’s room, opens the cupboard and takes out a box filled with letters and pictures cloaked in the sheen dust of memories. 

“What the fuck?” Sirius says.

Dennis laughs, easy and sure, “these are our memories. Letters he wrote to me when we didn’t live together, pictures of you and Regulus, letters he sent to you and him, some of them were burnt or sent back. And, the letters you and Regulus wrote back, before you couldn’t.”

“She would never let us call,” he murmurs, runs his fingers over a picture of him sitting next to Regulus and Dennis on the swing in their porch, a book in their lap. His fingers feel lit like a live-wire, years upon years of memories and longing running through his veins, thicker than any blood could ever be, “I’m sorry she didn’t come.” 

“That is not your fault and probably for the best. Your mother— did not get along with Alphard, as you well know.”

“She was his sister.” 

“She was never a good one, nor a good mother, to you and Regulus.” 

Sirius closes his eyes and wrings his hands together, wills the rise of the tide inside of him to slow, slow, slow, wills his heartbeat to steady.

“Sirius,” Dennis says, “Regulus’ death was not on you. Neither is Alphard’s.” 

“I know,” he says and if his voice trembles in his throat, that is his folly, that is his to bear and he’ll bear it, whether it be with shame or resignation or both.

“Sirius,” Dennis says, again, “child, look at me. It was _not_ your fault. That house was poison, Sirius, just like the people who built it. It got to Regulus. If you wish to blame someone, blame your mother, your father, blame Alphard and blame me.” 

At that Sirius does look at him, at the terrible proof of Dennis’ own pain written plain in the down-ward turn of his mouth, in the surrender in his eyes, “why would I ever blame Uncle Alphard or you?”

“Sirius,” he begins, sits down on the bed. Sirius joins him. He lays his hand, palm up on the between them as if about to tell a prophecy, “Sirius, I, We— we wanted to get you both out. Alphard and I, we did. It killed him, Sirius, it killed him, knowing that you both were there, rotting in that place.”

“That wasn’t your fault. You brought us here as much as you could. I will always be grateful for that.” 

“Not enough times.” Dennis says, bitter-gourds in the once honey of his voice, “I am truly sorry.” 

“Dennis,” Sirius starts, stops, wonders if there are any words in existence large enough to encompass the reality of the despair surrounding them, as if suspended in the air, along with the sunlight and the smell of soil and the first beginnings of another rainfall, “Dennis,” he tries, again, “it wasn’t your fault. She— she wasn’t good for anyone. Neither was Father.”

“It wasn’t yours either, then, Sirius. You were barely a child.” 

Sirius looks away, doesn’t say anything. 

“He saved everything,” Dennis continues, voice going soft as velvet, tinged with all his leftover love for Alphard, “your pictures, letters. You were darling children.” 

Sirius laughs, then, says, “Thank you for being there. You know, when I got top surgery. You didn’t have to. But, thank you.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. Of course we did. What kind of uncles would we be if we didn’t support you?”

“My own mother still calls me by my deadname, if I ever converse with her, which I don’t. You’d have been great uncles either way.”

Dennis laughs, “the standards were very low, dear.” 

“Eh, you two were the only people I could stand for the longest time.”

“He really was proud of you, Sirius. I am, as well.” 

Sirius looks away, at the rain falling outside, “this house always seems as if it’s something from a fairytale, something from a Grimm fairytale.” 

“I think that’s why Alphard chose it. An escape from reality.”

“A Grimm fairytale isn’t exactly the best escape.”

“No,” Dennis laughs, “I suppose not, but then he always had a particular, _proclivity,_ towards such things— dark places and houses, anything that looked like a walking horror movie.”

“You love this house.”

“I do, with every fibre of my being. I started my life in this house with your uncle, Sirius, that meant a lot of things to both of us.”

“Do you regret it,” Says Sirius, sweat on his palms as if he is a child waiting for a scolding.

“No— no, I suppose not,” Dennis says, eyes drifting, drifting, drifting, “I mourn, Sirius. I mourn that Alphard lost his sister while they were both still alive, I mourn that you and Regulus lost so many years in that place while Alphard and I could do nothing, I mourn for Regulus, I mourn for you. But I do not regret loving Alphard, I do not regret the life we built here. I could never regret that.” 

“That’s too much pain to live with.” Sirius says, breathes in, wishes he knew the words to _quell_ this pain that seems to suck on them like leeches.

“Perhaps, but I wasn’t unhappy, my dear boy. We mourned, Alphard and I, but we were happy. Pain and happiness aren’t mutually exclusive. They can exist together. Sometimes, there is no other option but for them to exist together.”

“How,” Says Sirius and they both pretend to not have noticed the slight waver in his voice.

“You just do it, Sirius. You’ve been doing it your whole life, my boy. You just don’t realise it, sometimes. You have a life, you have people, there’s your happiness.”

“Yeah,” he says, gathers the courage he thought he had spent the second he walked out of Grimmauld Place with only a bag on his back and a palm-full of misplaced hope, “speaking of people— James, Lily and Peter are sorry.”

“I know. James messaged me last night. And then, Lily called and then Peter messaged. James and Lily also sent pictures of Harry. He’s a beautiful baby.”

Sirius laughs, “yeah, he’s a very lucky child.” 

“You’ll be alright, Sirius.”

“Will I,” he breathes, tries a hand at a smile,, like grasping for a twig in the middle of an ocean, helpless but reluctant to admit it.

“Oh, yes,” Dennis says, smiles at him, pats his knee, once, then spreads the photos of them on the bed, “I know bravery when I see it, child. Just make sure you’re being brave when the time calls for it.”

“What do you mean,” he says, heart-beat a drum beat to his most loved and most hated song, something ugly and holy all at once, like being loved. 

“You know what I mean,” Dennis grins, “Remus is brave as well. But both of you need to be brave at the right time for something to happen.”

Sirius lets out a laugh, “yeah, I don’t— I don’t think it’ll work— me, I mean, I— I don’t think I’m capable of that kind of love.”

Dennis hums, “if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here sitting next to me on a dead man’s bed looking at photos of two dead men.” 

Sirius laughs and lets the rain carry it away, lets his hands rest easy and lets himself hurt, just a little bit. If there is any blood that comes from this, from this cleansing, from this becoming, he will wash it away like he has done, before, and he will burn the bridges as he crosses them and leave the matches behind. He will trust his feet to move only forward, forward, forward. 

____

Remus comes in the evening laden with pizza and pieces of moonlight tucked behind his ear as a keepsake. Sirius watches him move, watches him tuck his hair behind his ear and feels the building of _something_ in his gut, sharper than any blade. 

He watches him back, Sirius knows, sees it in the twist of his smile, the movement of his hands as he smooths his skirt, a vision in red, the epitome of sin, of holiness, of everything in the universe worth living for and worth dying for. 

They speak, after they eat. Remus asks him if he wants to go to see the River Wye and Sirius says _yes, yes, yes,_ through the cacophony in his head, in his heart, through the reminders of everything he’s fucked up digging into his skin with his own bloody nails, Sirius says _yes,_ because he can be brave, sometimes. He can be brave. 

So can Remus, it seems, with the way his eyes light up like the morning sun over the hilltops— the rising of hope within the despair of it all, the bravest thing to be done. He smiles with his teeth, brightness in his palms as he slips his hand into Sirius’— a confession, in a way. Sirius grasps it tight, tight, tight, another confession, in its own right. 

The river is beautiful, the noise of it something like a balm with the way it settles over them gently, gently, gently. The sun starts to go down, just a bit. 

Remus says, “have you ever been to Scotland?”

“Yeah,” says Sirius, “are you asking because of that song?”

“Yeah,” Remus smiles, the edges of it spreading towards the trees around them, to the rivers, “yeah. _Going to Scotland_. It’s a good one.”

“It is. So is _no children.”_

“Oh, you’d think so.” Remus says, laughs, head thrown back and Sirius watches the long line of his neck, the faint freckles he wishes to taste again and again and again. 

“What are you implying,” Sirius says, moves closer, electricity in the air, travelling up his spine to his fingers, he’s never felt more alive, he thinks, than right now, with Remus Lupin taking up all the space around him. 

“Absolutely nothing.” Remus grins, grabs a stone and throws it into the river, cheeks reddening as Sirius continues to gaze, “how do you like this place?”

“This, specifically or all of Wales?”

“This and Dennis’ house?”

“I like _this_ just fine. A bit more than, maybe. And the house— as well. Yeah.”

“I’m sorry about Alphard. I haven’t said it to you, yet, but, I am— sorry.”

Sirius looks up, the sky darkening, darkening, darkening, says, “yeah. Me too. When did your mum die?”

“Oh, she died about a month or two ago. I’ve just stuck around.”

“I’m sorry as well.” 

“Yes, well. No need to apologise. I wondered why yours wasn’t at the funeral.” Remus looks right at him as he says it, intensity like wild-fire in his eyes, yet he keeps his gaze, soft, tremulous as the earth can be, sometimes. 

“She didn’t like Alphard and Dennis. I didn’t like her much. She couldn’t quite be okay with the trans thing.”

Remus nods, eyes shifting towards the river that seems to rumble with grief, perhaps, or simply the acknowledgement of the things being said out loud. 

“Mine got sort of around to the me-being-non-binary thing. Dad didn’t.” 

“If I had a glass I’d raise it to you.” Sirius says, looks right at Remus and sees the moment Remus understands it— the sheer sincerity of his words, the truth in it. He’s never quite meant anything he’s said as much as this. Truth is, admittedly, not something he excels at, but he knows how to say it, sometimes, as long as he can get it out of the steel-trap of his mouth. 

Remus seems to accept it, with the way his eyes linger— at Sirius’ lips, then his hands, then the water, the red on his cheeks, lovelier than any ruby or any precious stone Sirius has ever seen or will ever see.

“Is there something in the air or do you mean it,” Remus says, hands steady where they rest near Sirius’. 

“I mean it.” 

“You never said anything back at Hogwarts, Sirius. You never said anything.”

“You didn’t either,” Says Sirius, heart-beat like the drum solo to his most loved song in his ears. 

“I wasn’t ready, then. I don’t think you were, either. But I’d have liked to know, maybe.” Remus smiles as he says it, softly, softly, softly, slightly trmulous but still steady in its wake and it’s the same smile Sirius fell for all those fucking years ago when the world was nothing but a hollow of despair tinged with blood.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, then, Remus. I hardly know what I’m doing now.”

“You certainly knew what you were doing when we met at Marlene’s.” Says Remus, mischief lined with the nostalgia of memories in every inch of his face.

“I’d waited _ages_ to get my hands on you, Remus. Of course I knew what I was doing then.” 

Remus smiles and Sirius finds himself mirroring it, looking up at the sky, the vastness of it filling every pore of him.

“How much do you remember,” Remus says. 

“Everything,” Sirius starts, “everything you said to me, everything I said to you. It’s in my head and every place else, has been for a long fucking time, Remus. I took you home.”

“Did you,” Remus asks, words spilling into the heavy-autumn air like something familiar, “was that home? Where you took me? Was that home?”

“What fuck are you,” Sirius says, laughs, laughs, looks at the moonlight where it catches on the edges of Remus’ smile and stays there, spreading through his face, making a ghost out of him. Remus’ hand moves to rest on top of his, something like an awakening, like stepping foot into a house he’s never seen before but whose scaffolding has been entrenched into the very crevices of his being. 

“It was always you, for me. It was always you.” Remus says, words like molasses latching on to Sirius’ teeth and making a home inside his mouth, inside the heart of him, the very fabric of him being painted by everything Remus Lupin has ever said and everything he will ever say, under this unholy moonlight or any other.

“Don’t— I, Remus, I don’t know what to do with that.” 

Remus looks away, then back to him, “I don’t know what to do with that either.”

“Can I kiss you?” Sirius asks, the only words that makes sense.

“Yes. It’s always going to be a yes for you.”

So, Sirius does. In the very simplest of terms, it feels like coming home for the first time after never having been there in the first place. In the simplest of terms, it feels like returning to a place that was _always_ his. Distantly, he thinks, if there is a God he would ever worship, it would be the taste of Remus’ mouth, the feeling of his skin, yielding under his hands, the crevices of Remus’ body— the only religion he would ever find, the only salvation that would ever be granted to him. And he takes it all greedily, as he has done his whole life, claims every noise Remus makes for his own, hoards them like gold and locks them away in every corner of his brain, his heart. 

When they pull away, Remus runs his hands through his hair, gentle as the rest of him, unyielding in the face of melancholy. He is hard-granite underneath it all and one day, one day, one day, Sirius will ask him everything. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Remus whispers and Sirius feels it in his gut, sweeter than honey and bitter as gourds. 

“Me either,” Sirius whispers, “I wanna do this with you, though, whatever it is. If you’d let me.”

“God,” Remus says, laughs, lightness in his touch, “you— everything you say. God. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that, Sirius?”

“Are you afraid?” Sirius says.

“Not of you, God. But—”

“Will you run away?”

“That’s fucking low,” Remus laughs, hands cupping his face and SIrius catches his wrist in his own, his pulse the only music he wishes to hear ever again, “but no. God, fuck, no. I don’t want to run away from you again. Honestly, I don't think I could. You found me. You’re a fucking dog.”

“Like my namesake.” 

“Brighter.” Remus says and his cheeks redden again. He laughs, hides his face in Sirius’ shoulder and Sirius— he feels it all at once, the ache of it, the joy of it, everything ends and begins at the same place— all the threads of their lives entangled into something he wishes he could name. When it all comes down to it, when all the layers are removed and the only thing left is the hard, unyielding, core— he thinks, joy and grief taste the same in his mouth. 

“Remus,” He says and Remus looks up at him. There is something there, Sirius can see it, something in his eyes that seems to match something in his own. 

“What is it?” Remus murmurs. 

He breathes in a bit, takes out a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, holds one out to Remus who takes it as well. The space where their fingers brush making his spine light up like quicksilver.

“What am I supposed to do with all this fucking grief?” He lights the cigarette, the small glow of it something like a parody of a beacon in the vastness of Wales.

“Keep it in a jar next to your bed. Let it grow and fester. Then paint the walls of your home with it.” 

“What fucking home.” Sirius says.

“London. If it’s not, then make it, or you can find something else.”

“You,” Sirius begins, heart-beat frantic in his ears and the wind picks up a bit, the noise of the river louder than before, “what if you’re my home?”

“Fucking hell, Sirius,” Remus laughs again, the glow of his cigarette lighting his face in a way that reminds Sirius of apparitions left to haunt the houses they died in— unholy fire in every inch of them, something that doesn’t deserve to be quelled, “you don’t have to bullshit me, you know. I don’t think I could say no to you.” 

“I’m not,” Sirius insists, “bullshitting you. I wouldn’t. I don’t think I could, right now.” 

“You’re good at it, I know you are.”

“Maybe,” Sirius laughs, “but I wouldn’t, Remus.”

“Sirius,” He sighs, “Sirius, I— I’ve never been a home for _anyone,_ I’ve never been a home for my own fucking self, I don’t know how to do it.” 

“I don’t either. But you sort of already are, to me.”

“If you’re lying— if you’re lying Sirius, I won’t be able to take it. I’ve waited for years.” 

“So have I.” 

Remus laughs, “what if it’s just your pain talking?”

“I think it’s always my pain talking,” Sirius says, eyes on Remus, only ever on Remus, “it stops, a little, with you.” 

Remus looks at him and the earth seems to still, a little, as if everything in the universe is dependent on the next words Remus will say. He kisses Sirius. He kisses him and he kisses him and Sirius drags him closer by his waist, every inch of space between them seeming like blasphemy and what could be holier? What could be better than this? This _thing_ between them that seems to hinge on destruction as much as it does on _re-building_ but there it is again— the feeling of something new blossoming in his chest and spreading like wildfire to his lungs, the beating of his heart in tune with Remus’ and if there is a life in which he is granted forgiveness, it _has_ to be this one, because nothing in this earth or in any heaven or hell could _hurt and heal_ as much as Remus’ mouth on his. 

When they pull away, Remus grasps his shirt in his hands, tight as if he is afraid Sirius will disappear the moment he lets go. His eyes tremble just slightly as his mouth curves up into something like a smile. 

_I love you,_ Sirius thinks, broken litanies humming in head in a tune that seems to have escalated beyond the scopes of time. _I love you,_ he thinks and a bell tolls in the distance— like the beginning of something new and the endurance of something old. _I love you,_ he thinks and it spreads through his chest to where his heart is supposed to be— a tide trespassing the ends of the ocean, filling it’s way into the remnants of the sand that managed to _stay. I love you,_ he thinks and does not say. 

But the tremble behind Remus’ eyes collapses, just a little, and Sirius thinks, _he must know._

 _I love you,_ he thinks, again, and does not say.

_____

The morning looks easier the next day, Remus’ own house seeming less spectral as he stands outside of it, Sirius beside him, hand on the small of his back, guarding, it seems, as he does with all that he loves, _guarding, guarding, guarding._

Remus looks up at him and catches his smile between his teeth, keeps it in his heart as a keepsake, for later. 

“We can stay longer.” Remus says. 

Sirius shakes his head, softly, “we can stay if you’d want. Dennis has some of their other friends visiting tomorrow so I think he’ll be fine. Too many people— he gets overwhelmed sometimes.” 

Remus nods, “well, then.” 

“You wanna say goodbye?”

“No, I— I think I’ve overstayed my welcome in this house.” 

Sirius’ arm circles his waist and Remus rests his head on his shoulder. The house becomes smaller, slowly, as they walk away and Remus’ world becomes larger. 

___

Dennis bids them with goodbye with nothing but sheer, blinding, joy in his open arms, when he hugs both of them. 

“Take care of each other.” He says, eyes soft in the rare sunlight and Remus’ heart aches with it. 

“You have to call if you need anything, and I mean _anything_ at all.” Sirius says, fierce in his words as he is in everything he does and Remus’ heart breaks slightly inside his chest.

“Don’t you worry, my dear boy, you’ll be the first to know of any new developments.” Dennis smiles, hugs them both again, “now shoo. London awaits.” 

____

Sirius opens the door to his flat and it looks like what Remus thought it would— empty in some places, full in others, not unlike Sirius, with pictures of those he loves on his walls. 

“Is this a good fucking idea, Sirius,” Remus says, all the ways this could go to the dogs seem to have laid themselves down on the the fucking floor in front of him to poke and prode at. 

“I don’t know,” Sirius says, leans against the door, casual grace in the stance of him, “if it doesn’t, you can live with Dorcas and I can go and cry to James for a bit and then we can try again, if you’d like.” 

Remus laughs, and Sirius walks up to him, mouth twisting up, arms around his waist and Remus rests one of his hands on his chest, feels his heartbeat under his fingers and thinks if he could wake up to this every day of his fucking life, it would be a life well led. 

Sirius presses his forehead to Remus’ and breathes with him, the spaces around them lighting up with it, with the feeling of something new expanding everywhere— good and bad and ugly and not so ugly, everything they are, and everything they aren’t, all of it encompassed in the space between their bodies, all of it large and small and something they can fit within the life they will build, and rebuild for as long as they can do this.  
  
Sirius kisses him softly and his fingers are firm on his waist, more real than anything alive has a right to be. 

“Are you— is this home now,” Remus breathes.

“Yes.” Sirius says, and it is loud in the unsilence that hangs around them like a veil, and Sirius’ fingers tighten, just a bit, the ridges of his smile. This close, Remus can see all the ways in which his smile seems _fractured,_ all the ways in which it seems to have persisted and _he loves him to the ends of this earth and any other._

“We’re going to do this,” Remus whispers, a confession as much as it is a question. 

“We are.” Says Sirius, as Remus wraps his arms around his shoulders. They sway slightly, to nothing but the sounds of their own breaths that seem newer than they ever have, like the feeling of guitar strings under calloused fingers after a while, like the feeling of the earth under one’s own feet before a storm. Wreckage and its aftermath and the re-building all in one breath that they share, feet moving on the floor that remains steady through it all. 

_I love you,_ Remus thinks, and it spreads through his chest to the flat they’re standing in, to the edges of the city, to the lights surrounding them, _I love you,_ Remus thinks and the sun sets on London and he watches the moment the glow of the moon settles on Sirius’ face like a _becoming. I love you,_ Remus thinks, as fiercely as he is able, _I love you,_ Remus thinks and does not say. He doesn’t have to. 

_I love you,_ Remus thinks and Sirius kisses him again. Neither of them say it. They don’t have to. It floats in the air around them, guarding, guarding, _guarding._

**Author's Note:**

> if you wanna chat about the Boys, find me on [ tumblr! ](https://theskyisgay021.tumblr.com/) shoot me a prompt or ask a question or chat if you wanna.
> 
> title from the song of the same name by Bright Eyes.
> 
> thank you for reading! comments and kudos make my life better. if you feel like it, leave one and i will worship the ground you walk on.


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